


true amici

by luce_incanto



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Festival di Sanremo RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Not Serious, Real friendship, Semi-Public Sex, amici, not really public of course, rating might be exaggerated (again)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 23:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18487057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luce_incanto/pseuds/luce_incanto
Summary: a little something about the evening at Amici and certain details of the show





	true amici

**Author's Note:**

> those five minutes of metamoro at Amici really inspired me, but i would have never written anything if it wasn't for my friends. who deceived me, using my not exactly sober state, and made me believe for an evening that Ermal had his belt unfastened during the performance (in fact it was just fastened crooked)) and that somehow this was connected to Fabri having a sore throat. It was too easy to connect the dots... so, i'm kinda sorry for this, but it is what it is xD

Fabri feels light with excitement all morning, can hardly stand in one place without springing on his feet to the beat of a song no one else hears. Amici is not the kind of show he’ll come running to every time he gets invited, but today he won’t be there alone, and he hasn’t seen Ermal for too long. More than a week, not too much for them, actually, not after all those months, but the feeling of lack in his chest only grows from day to day, never completely vanishing during their short meetings.

He is on edge and Ermal arrives late, barely making it to rehearsals, so they see each other only in the studio, and there are too many eyes on them, too many contestants, presenters, cameramen, stylists and assistants, all demanding their attention. There’s barely any time for a short hug and a couple of smiles, anything else is out of question.

Fabrizio sighs heavily, ruffles his own hair instead of reaching out for someone else’s curls, obediently stands where he’s told and tries to look less impatient. Surviving those few hours of the show won’t be too difficult knowing that later they’ll drive home together, that in private he’ll be allowed to do anything and everything he wants. For some time now he’s been granted that right, but he still wonders at it every single time, not quite believing that it’s finally real. He continues stealing glances again and again, just to be sure that Ermal wants it too, that he too can’t help thinking of the time after the show. That he missed him as much and that’s why right now he keeps watching him out of the corner of his eye instead of concentrating on breaking down their songs into phrases and lines.

When rehearsal is finally coming to an end they can get a little closer, Fabri can throw his hand over Ermal's shoulders, can stare at him unashamedly, smiling and licking his lips. Impatiently anticipating the moments alone. Their eyes meet and Ermal smiles at him faintly, dropping his gaze slightly lower and chewing on his lower lip.

A camera is aimed at them suddenly, tearing away the feeling of being in a bubble together, its glassy eye watching their reactions carefully. It’s time to say something funny, joke a little, like friends are supposed to, but Fabri isn’t very good at improvising. He just blurts out something he’s been thinking about instead.

 “When will we finally see each other?”

“I don’t know, maybe when you learn to answer my calls,” Ermal counters without batting an eyelash, always a sharp answer on his tongue. They should laugh now, but Fabrizio is too busy eating him with his eyes, thinking about what will come later, about the ways he can make Ermal pay for his joking insults. About the ways Ermal’d like to be made. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to make out with you!”

(In front of everyone.)

Camera turns off, Fabri chokes on a fit of laughter, and Ermal covers his face with his hand, barely stopping himself from asking for a retake. Begging for it, because otherwise come morning the whole country will know that when Fabri looks at him like _that_ , he cannot concentrate on his words, cannot think about anything except how much he wants to finally greet him properly. Fortunately, Fabrizio leads him away before he manages to draw even more attention to his non-joke.

xxx

Hour and a half flies by between stylists and people in the halls, desperate for a conversation, and they lose precious time on pleasantries.

“Twenty minutes left,” says Fabri, closing the door of the dressing room behind them. And licks his lips in a slightly suggestive way. He falls down on the sofa, leaving a seat next to himself, pats it invitingly. “Do you wanna rehearse?”

“You know I don’t,” Ermal grins and rolls his eyes, sits closer than necessary just to push the back of his head into Fabri’s shoulder, recline on him, making himself comfortable. “Let the contestants rehearse. We’ve already sang our three lines once, we can handle it. Unless you’ve spent all your vocal abilities on the album”.

“My vocal… verbal and oral abilities are fine,” Fabrizio responds, nonchalant, and Ermal chokes out a laugh, shakes his head fondly at this stupid childish joke. Very typical of them.

“I don’t know, should I check?” he pulls back, responding to the provocation, slightly turns on the couch with a sigh. He doesn’t exactly want to move, but otherwise he cannot reach Fabri’s face, bite his beautiful lips, demanding the demonstration of his… abilities. Not that he doubted them at any time.

Ermal might enjoy this demonstration a bit too much, but that’s definitely not his fault. The door is locked, those twenty minutes are theirs and theirs only, he can just relax for once. And remind himself how good it feels to kiss Fabrizio’s smile, slow and lazy, stroke his cheek and absorb those moments with his whole being. And it’s Fabri, not him, who’s trying to seize the initiative again and again, who’s being more and more forceful and insistently presses closer, buries fingers in his hair, pulling, not allowing him to move away even a little. It feels too much and Ermal can’t catch his fleeing breath.

He looks away for a moment, casting a short glance at the clocks on the wall. Time needs to be watched. Only three minutes passed, but they seem, they _feel_ limitless. Almost as if they were always there, him and Fabrizio, in a dusty small room with a locked door. He’d like to stay even longer.

He raises his hand to stroke Fabri’s lips with his fingers, to follow those nice contours, admiring, as always, gentle and calm, until Fabrizio opens his mouth slightly to touch them with his tongue. And smiles. Ermal doesn’t know how his smile manages to be provoking and warm at the same time, but he’d see it exactly like that in his nightmares if it didn’t already feature in another kind of his dreams.

“Bizio,” he says reproachfully, and can’t help but lick his own lips unconsciously. And swallow, breathless, when Fabri closes his lips around his finger. “Bizio-o…”

It’s difficult to focus on his internal clocks, counting the seconds down slowly, when Fabri’s looking at him like that, eyes greedy, and dark, and longing. They do see each other too little, that’s right, but they still shouldn’t make out in the dressing room when there are so few minutes left. They are adults with certain principles, with a sense of dignity, with an understanding of when and where such things are supposed to happen, not impatient children. Right?

“What?” Fabri’s looking at him through his eyelashes, and Ermal can almost pinpoint the second when his dignity flies away along with the remnants of his sanity. He knows he cannot resist those gazes for long. He stays silent, stills his fingers, but doesn’t move away. “Don’t you want to check my abilities anymore?” Fabrizio takes his hand, gently kisses each finger. Slowly, in time with the seconds ticking down in Ermal’s mind. Or maybe it’s seconds what now goes in rhythm with those kisses, slowing down inevitably. “What if we mess up on the stage because of this? Never imagined you could be so... irresponsible.”

Ermal, being responsible, exhales and rips his hand away from that tempting mouth, not responding to provocations anymore. And then he bends down for the next (chaste) kiss, but Fabri moves away after the first short touch, elusive and free. And slides off the couch, dropping to his knees.

“Bizio, no,” Ermal says in a warning tone, but his voice shakes unconvincingly when Fabri confidently parts his knees. He throws another glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes. “Look, we don’t have time, don’t, stop — “

Fabrizio only moves closer, putting elbows on his knees, and smiles again.

“And _stop_ looking at me like that,” Ermal breaks down, repeating this phrase again, for the second time in a couple of hours, and you know why? Because it’s sincerely unbearable, impossible to endure those gazes. “Enough. I’d like to concentrate on the song while we’re on the stage, not on… other things.”

He doesn’t explain _what_ things exactly, leaving Fabrizio to imagine what’s going on in his head right now. It’s not a very difficult puzzle.

“I missed you,” Fabri says meanwhile, as if not hearing him at all, as if they are having two completely different conversations right now, and he isn’t kneeling on the floor. He isn’t lying, it’s all too easy to see it in the way he throws all those looks, in the way he runs his hands along the jean-clad legs, in his irresistible persistence and urgency of gestures. In _everything._

“Or maybe not _me_ per se,” Ermal can’t hold back a cheeky smile, slightly raising his hips to show exactly what he means. He isn’t trying to close his knees anymore, his palm lays on Fabri’s shoulder without pushing him away, but it’s still hesitant, somewhere between affection and feigned indifference. Not very deep in his mind he already knows that he’s lost this round, though.

He cannot help but react — it is impossible not to react when Fabrizio’s being so irresistible just by freely expressing his affection, his want, his need. When he licks his lips, slowly, and knows very well what reaction he wants to provoke. It’s impossible to tear away his eyes from this handsome face, startlingly beautiful in any situation, at any time of the day, and Ermal still remembers how even on that dreadful night in Sanremo he couldn’t stop admiring this profile, those tired dark eyes. He is always handsome, but when he looks up from the floor, kneeling, just like now… Ermal forgets how to put sounds into words. And the only thing he still _can_ do is mirror the gesture, lick his own thirsty lips and frantically squeeze his fingers.

Fabrizio is the one on his knees, but it is Ermal who’s completely under his spell.

“Bizio, don't,” he asks unconvincingly, biting his lips, but his fingers burrow into dark hair already, pulling him closer in a silent demand. Fabri doesn’t let go of his eyes while slowly unfastening his belt.

Ten minutes. Only ten fucking minutes remain on their clocks, but Fabri acts as if he’s not in any hurry, as if they’ve got all night ahead. And they do have all night, but Ermal’s not going to wait until all songs are sung, all words are said, all selfies taken, and they are finally allowed to go home. He wants everything _right now._ And it’s terribly unfair, cause he’s the one who wanted to waste those twenty minutes on soft kisses and chaste caresses, maybe throw his legs over Bizio and let him pat his hair, play with his curls as much as he wants. He really thought this warm closeness would be enough for him, that he could hold his breath and dive into a long hug as he dives into the welcoming waves on the seashore of Bari, trusting the sea to embrace him. He thought it’d be enough to chat about this and that, anything and everything, get a couple of smiles and answer with a couple of kisses, wait for the joke about the bush he’s grown on his head. He’d take those private little moments and be happy, but Fabri decided differently. It’s as if greed and impatience are eating him from inside out all day and instead of calming down and waiting he just shares those feelings generously, infecting Ermal with his urgency.

He’s passed the point of no return now.

“Faster,” Ermal hisses, irritated with his own inconsistence, pulls the dark strands of Fabri’s hair, trying to get him to speed up, to remind him that clocks are still ticking, nastily clicking away their minutes together. But for some reason he’s the only one who can hear them.

“As fast as you change your mind?” teases Fabrizio, smirking. He knows. He sees Ermal’s fingers scratching the leather of the sofa seat, sees how he purses his lips, so as not to say everything he thinks about him being maddeningly slow, sees how his legs, stretched so limp only a couple of minutes ago, tense up. He sees and he still continues the excruciating slide of his fingertips over the jeans.

“Try not to hurt your knees too much,” Ermal’s voice is dripping with poison, and he shudders inside from the next _tic-tok_ in his mind, because it’s nine minutes now. “At your age it’s better not to risk it, you know.”

Fabrizio laughs softly, rewards him by a fly opened for the hundredth repetition of an old joke, and Ermal breathes out slowly. Nine minutes. All those games, those openly seducing glances and damn smiles did have a certain effect on him, and now he feels almost on edge already, and for a moment it seems as if it’d be easy to make it in time. Almost too easy. But Fabri opens the button of his jeans with such exasperating slowness, caresses him over the underwear with such mocking gentleness, that it becomes quite obvious that _easy_ isn’t the case. As always with them. But to be frank, if Ermal liked simple and uncomplicated, if he enjoyed _easy,_ he wouldn’t be sitting right here right now, frozen in an agonizing wait, secretly enjoying every single second of delay despite all common sense, still alive somewhere in his head. Alive and reminding him that he won’t have time to compose himself before the show starts.

Eight minutes.

“Fabri… just fucking do it,” Ermal plunges his hand into soft hair, pulling Fabrizio closer, totally destroying the semblance of order that the stylist has been creating for an hour. He didn’t plan it, didn’t think something like this would happen, least of all _here_ , but Fabri’s quite good at seducing. He can make him desperate in a record time and right now he seems intent on making him lose his mind and control, so that when the time comes to perform, he wouldn’t be able to utter a word. This could’ve been a nice strategy to win the competition (more like Ermal’s style, he has to admit) if only any of them cared about the result.

Fabri unexpectedly gives in, as if realizing that this is the limit of what he can achieve in such a short time, that to make Ermal ask for it nicely, let alone beg, he needs more seconds and minutes and maybe even hours. So he follows the guiding hands obediently, finally pulls jeans and underwear down. And immediately, without long pauses, slow caresses, without a tease of hot breath on his skin and small, gentle kisses he usually likes so much, he moves forward intently and takes him in his mouth. Swallows deep down into the throat, almost completely, and Ermal involuntary jerks his hips up, barely holding back a scream, snatches the strands of Fabri’s hair, painful. Exhales, shuddering, swearing under his breath, trying to remind himself of thin walls, curious ears and limited time.

Fabrizio finds his fingers with his own, not even bothering to stop what he’s doing with his mouth, squeezes, forcing Ermal to let go of his hair, and Ermal instantly withdraws guiltily. He tries to apologize, caressing those locks again, now lightly, but his fingers doesn’t seem to cooperate, they look for support, for something to hold on to. To keep himself in check. But he knows all too well that he’s causing pain, so, with another strangled moan, he squeezes his hand into a fist instead, biting on his knuckles to muffle the stream of sounds coming out of his mouth. He cannot control them, cannot stop those groans, and, what’s even worse, cannot be sure that he won’t fucking scream if Fabri does this again - _oh my God, yes, please, Bizio_ -

Fabrizio is very, very good at what he does. It’s a natural talent, it’s his ability to be breathtakingly good at anything he puts his mind to, it’s his experience, and Ermal has to stifle a pang of jealousy at the very thought of that last one. It’s the way he enjoys every single caress on another’s skin, forgetting about himself, catching every reaction, every desperate movement, every choked sound. Ups and downs of thighs, chasing pleasure, like a cardiogram of a heart attack, which one of them will suffer sooner or later. And Ermal very much suspects that it’d be him, and soon, if Fabri continues like that.

Fabrizio knows what he’s doing to him, knows what effect he causes. He cannot smile with his busy mouth, but he has the audacity to do it with his eyes, and Ermal’s only regret is that he cannot find the strength in himself to stop him right now just to kiss the smirk off his lips.

Ermal has no experience, no talent and no hope that one day he’d become as good as Fabri at it, that he’d pay him back in full for this wonderful torture. It’s Fabri who always says that there’s its own charm in his _in_ experience, in his awkwardness and endless questions, and Ermal laughs at it, not quite believing. But what they both know for sure is that Ermal always finds ways to give back. Not now, though, right now they have no time left at all and clocks in his head has long ago gone mad, beating hysterically to the excited rhythm of his pulse.

“One minute left,” shouts someone behind the closed door, knocks and knocks, and Ermal tries to come up with an answer, to tell him that yeah, they’re already running, but Fabri chooses that exact moment to close his lips firm around him, squeeze tight, slowly backing down. Like he’s trying to kill him. And instead of acknowledgement there’s only a moan in his throat, too loud for the stillness of the room. “Everything alright?..” clarifies the person behind the door, obviously having heard something.

“Of course, we’re ready,” answers Fabri in an even tone and his voice is _hoarse_. Hoarse as in ‘smoke a pack of cigarettes in an hour’ hoarse, or ‘screamed into the wall for two hours” hoarse.

“Hurry up,” is the only thing they get from behind the door and Ermal doesn’t even get to hear the steps moving away, because Fabri returns his unbearable gaze and returns to what he’s been doing without any warning.

“Fuck, Bizio, stop,” repeats Ermal like a broken record, because they’ve got to go, right the fuck _now,_ their time’s over. But Fabri does something crazy with his tongue and takes him down his throat again, hot and unyielding, and Ermal cannot hold back anymore. He only has time to think that everyone will hear this hoarse, hoarse voice in a couple of minutes, everybody, Maria and the contestants, people behind their tv screens… but no one will ever guess the _reason…_

He comes at that thought, bites his knuckles almost to blood, cheeks burning with shame, because he cannot quite stifle _all_ the sounds, they rush freely out of his mouth in whining moans, in high-pitched cries that cannot be restrained. He can only watch, helplessly, as Fabri’s poor throat twitches when he swallows, and try not to die on the spot. And then Fabrizio just gets up, wipes his lips calmly with a back of his hand, straightens his hair in the mirror. Waits for Ermal to get up on his shaky legs and fasten his pants in a hurry.

“Why do you keep doing this to me,” Ermal murmurs, darkly, seeing his content face. It’s like Fabrizio was the one to suffer this pleasure, not him, so ecstatic he looks.

Ermal very much hopes there are no cameras in the dressing room.

“You shouldn’t have said you won’t make out with me. While looking at my mouth,” says Fabrizio, shrugging nonchalantly. Or maybe it’s him pretending to be offended.

“Fabri, don’t be an idiot,” Ermal feels a bright smile spreading on his face, cannot stop it. “How can I resist your looks? But I was serious, stop with them if you don’t want it to be the most scandalous evening of Amici. And that’s saying something, with this show.”

xxx

They still have ten minutes left because of one or other delay, and Ermal’s grateful he can catch his breath, return his face to normal color and straighten his hair. Fabri’s diligently not looking at him anymore so not to appear before the camera’s eye with an obvious problem in his tight pants. But it’s somehow him who notices Ermal’s belt still hanging open, who helps him fasten it in a hurry, smirking.

“I might’ve caught cold,” he says matter-of-factly in a couple of minutes, when asked about the throat, about the way he’s struggling to speak. He doesn’t even blush, as if the real reason isn’t right there, beside him.

And right at that moment Ermal realizes that his belt is fastened crooked, and not a little bit, for everyone to see. But no one will ever connect those two details, right?

**Author's Note:**

> as always, would be grateful if you correct my mistakes


End file.
